The ship should’ve been silent, but it isn’t. It hums in uneven pulses, like something struggling to stay alive. The hallway is dim, lit by weak emergency lights that flicker just enough to distort what you’re seeing. The air is cold and stale, carrying a sharp metallic scent that doesn’t belong on any ship still in operation. Every step you take echoes too clearly, bouncing down the corridor with no place to go.

Then you feel it.

A vibration runs through the floor, heavier than the ship itself should be making. You stop immediately. Ahead, the hallway bends—and something is there, blocking it. At first it’s just a shape in the darkness, too large to make sense of. Then it moves forward into the light.

The Crusher steps out.

It’s massive. Dense. Built like a living battering ram wrapped in thick, ridged armor plating. Its head is low and blunt, designed for impact rather than precision. The walls around it groan slightly as it shifts its weight, like the ship itself is reacting to its presence. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t need to.

a little. A deep rumble builds inside it, slow and heavy, like pressure being forced into control. Its claws press into the floor, leaving marks as it braces. It isn’t searching. It isn’t hesitating. It’s committing.

It takes one step forward.

The corridor shakes.

Then another step.

Closer now. Too close.

Your body reacts before your thoughts fully catch up, but there’s nowhere to go that feels fast enough. The distance between you collapses in a way that doesn’t feel natural for something that size.

Then it moves.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sudden burst of force as the Crusher launches forward, turning its entire mass into impact. The air itself feels like it’s being pushed aside.

And in that moment, there’s only one thing left:

move—or get hit.